


Keene's Not Bad at His Job But Everything is Still a Disaster

by imperfectkreis



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-03-25 22:39:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3827587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Keene and Dog were urban detectives and they had a whole bunch of shitty human coworkers who knocked over their coffee, burned evidence, and generally made everyone's life more difficult? Yeah, that's what's going on here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hairline Fractures

**Author's Note:**

> You should also check out [Chocochipbiscut's Dog Makes a Terrible Police Officer](http://archiveofourown.org/series/247507) because...you know, super mutants as law enforcement. We thought it was a good idea. And a terrible idea. We have ideas.

Keene’s shift starts at six p.m. That’s one of the perks of the job. He can work through the night without having to brave the daylight, except for a scant few hours at the beginning of his shift, and even then only in the summer hours, and maybe an hour or so at the end. That’s good. He’s suited to working at night. At first he worried that he got the shifts because he was nightkin, his partner too. Like they were relegated to hours when they would least be seen by respectable folk. The idea chafed; he didn’t want the hours. But now he likes them, humans and their prejudices be damned, worked out okay for him.

Keene’s shift starts at six p.m. and every evening he comes in to the precinct and makes a fresh pot of coffee, tossing the grounds no one bothered to clean up when the last batch ran dry. The coffee machine is on its last legs, and one would think replacing it would be a priority, but no. It just hobbles along. They won’t replace it until the whole thing breaks down. Even then, it’ll only get fixed if someone other than him asks.

At six oh three p.m. she’s always there. Just late enough that she doesn’t have to put any effort into setting up the machine herself. 

Jill.

She smells like cigarettes and strongly of perfume. It makes Keene sick to his stomach. But at least he’ll never miss her, because even though she can be eerily quiet, he’ll never miss the smell. 

Together they wait it out until the coffee is done brewing. She chews the end of her cigarette because they won’t let her smoke inside anymore. So instead she chews gum and keeps the cigarette in her mouth too. As soon as she steps foot outside the building, it’s alight. It’s the only task Keene has seen her commit to with any sense of urgency. 

She rolls her empty coffee cup between her hands and Keene thinks this is the day he’ll finally tell her to back off. That he put the effort it, small as it was, to brew coffee. That she never contributes anything, to anyone. That he needs more than two tiny, human-size cups to stay half awake, but by the time he’s through with his second she’s gone and drank the rest of the pot. But the words don’t come because Keene is sick to his stomach when she reaches for the carafe first and he gets the scent of her hair.

\--

He can watch her without looking. Skill of being a detective and a nightkin both. Keene’s good at his job, very good. He wouldn’t have it otherwise, working against circumstances as he is forced to. If he doesn’t perform, Dog won’t fare much better. They’ll both be out on their asses. And he’s not, he’s fucking not letting these humans tell him what he is and is not capable of.

So even without looking, Keene knows she’s got her feet up on her desk, leafing through reports too fast to actually be reading a damn thing. Her potato of a partner, nervously scribbling down notes that may as well be gibberish. They are not good at their jobs. But they don’t have to be, they’re human.

\--

Keene flips through photographs of the crime scene, going over each one, rearranging the order into some sort of progression. But towards what? The images have been haunting him for days. He reshuffles them again, reaches for his coffee cup.

A hard knock at his shoulder and the cup slips from his hand, crashing against the floor. It doesn’t really break, but now his coffee, the second cup, fans out against the tile, seeping into the cracks. The precinct floor is uneven. By now Cass knows well enough to lift up her boots as the liquid creeps towards her desk. Anytime anyone drops anything, it rolls towards her.

“Goddamnit, Keene,” Cass curses. 

But not a word of annoyance to his assailant, the one who bumped into him so fiercely, all hundred-ten pounds of her, that she knocked the coffee from his hands. That couldn’t have been a mistake. 

“Oops. Clumsy me,” she doesn’t smile, or laugh, or look a bit ashamed. But she says the words aloud like they’ll absolve her actions.

Keene is left with only one coffee in him and Cass’ voice still ringing “Clean up you fool.”

At least the photographs are intact. Small mercies.

\--

At the time, he hadn’t thought that his mug had broken when it clattered against the floor. But when he poured coffee, hot from the carafe, straight into his well-worn mug the next evening, it splintered and cracked down the side, it came apart in slow motion. Coffee leaking across the countertops and down to the floor. 

Jill had already left with her over-full cup some minutes before. So at the very least he was saved his dignity, this time.

\--

She does it again. Only this time her narrow hip smashes into the corner of his desk, making Keene’s mug, borrowed from Dog, jump in place, coffee sloshing out over the brim. Brown patches soak into his printed reports. He nearly lashes out just then because she’s still standing so close, smelling like perfume and cigarettes, smacking her gum so loud he can’t think. 

And the audacity that she stands there, rubs her offending hip and says ‘ow.’ Like his desk committed some grave offense against her instead of the other way around. Keene knows, just knows that there is no way that hurt her, not in the least. He once saw that woman jump on the hood of a moving car to get it to stop. She’s near indestructible, despite her bird-like bone structure. 

His reports end up soaking most of the coffee, because he’s too distracted by the way the hem of her white shirt rides up when she goes to rub her hip again.

\--

The third time he catches her before she does it. In a vain attempt to thwart her mischief, he takes his coffee in the evidence locker. He’s a bit cramped between the narrow shelves, but it’s dark, quiet too. Not so bad all in all.

He holds his mug between his hands, watching them swallow it up. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Dog doesn’t seem to mind, not too much. But they’ve always been different on this account. Keene can remember what his big hands looked like when they weren’t so big, just normal-human big. 

The door opens, he can see the sliver of light from the hall, and smell her perfume. But no gum, not today. She keeps it in the top drawer of her desk, in her back jean pocket, a myriad of places. 

“Leave me alone.” When there is no one else to see them, Keene doesn’t feel as compelled to play nice. They’d chide him for harassing the pretty detective otherwise, but in here, there isn’t anyone to judge. 

“Didn’t know you were in here.” She lets the door click closed behind her, blotting out the light from the hall.

He takes another big gulp of his coffee, before she gets any bright ideas. “Why are you here?”

In the low light he can still see her shrug. Her green eyes stand out too, bright when they catch. “I come here sometimes to steal evidence.”

Jill says it so dryly Keene can’t tell if she’s joking or not. He rushes to finish so he can just get the fuck out, go back to his work, try to make sense of photographs, static details that he can nonetheless manipulate with his mind, his intellect. At least he’s still got that, for now.

Her smell is so strong he thinks he might lose his lunch. What was it? Some fancy sandwich Dog made at home and brought for him. With a bunch of unpronounceable ingredients Keene doesn’t give a fuck about. Tasted alright though. Would taste worse coming back up.

Low heels clicking against the concrete floor. He wishes he could dissipate because there are a thousand things that might happen, and none of them end well for him. Because he’s the mutant on a short leash, and she’s the woman who does nothing and receives everything. She also might be destroying evidence. 

Her head only comes to the middle of his chest, even with her heels. If he inhales too much, his chest will bump into hers, close as they are. There’s not enough space, too tight. He doesn’t know why they’re this close. Because they’re not friends. They’re not lovers. They’re not anything and they never will be. She’s just the woman who makes it fucking difficult for him to put enough caffeine in his bloodstream and he’s sick and tired of it. 

And he can’t fucking do anything about it either.

She takes the mug from his hands. Without fighting it, he releases. When she brings it to her own lips, her lipstick worn off just a little in the center, he wants to grab her, throw her against the wall, break her too. Like she keeps breaking him for no fucking reason. 

But he can’t. So he watches even with his eyes averted.


	2. Stains

Jill sticks her chopsticks back into the pack though she's already lost her appetite. Didn't really care for the shit in the first place, but like hell she's going to cook, never, not again. So she buys cheap takeout and sits in front of her television with her socked feet up on the coffee table. It's got Sheraton legs, but the surface is all wrong for them.

She watches programs about bright-eyed, fresh-faced couples looking for their perfect home together. Hours of it stretch on until she falls asleep, the box of take away still open and the chopsticks fallen to the carpet. When she wakes up, she still can't be bothered to hate herself for the stain.

\--

Different place, both the origin of the food and her location while eating it. Sitting on the hood of her black, department issued car, she shoves down greasy noodles one mouthful at a time. After three or four bites though, she's done.

Without looking to the side, she holds out the pack at arm's reach for Keene to take, if he wants it. Their partners, Boone and Dog, should be here soon to spell them. Until then, she's just got to not look at the guy, pretend everything is fine. They just work together, she doesn't care how big or mean or ugly he thinks he is. She's more than that, just in a prettier package, so no one can tell. At least Keene tries to do good, she can't even manage that.

Keene reaches over, it's easy for him, even though he's perched on the hood of his own car, parked beside hers. The overpass keeps them both out of sight, while they keep watch over the still river. The boat they're waiting on hasn't appeared, human traffickers ferrying girls into the city. They're always too thin, too young. Everyone else thinks they're scared, but Jill's not sure. The boat hasn't shown in days, despite their vigilance. 

How Keene doesn't cause the metal to cave is a mystery to her, but she doesn't question it. She just pulls away her fingers from the box before he can come close to touching them.

They don't speak. They never speak.

He doesn't eat her leftovers though, he just throws them across the gravel so they spill out like intestines. Makes her sick to look at. 

"If you were gonna waste it," she lights her cigarette, preferring it to the Chinese, "you didn't need to touch it."

Keene grunts and they return to their silence. She holds out her cigarette pack too, but he never takes her up on the offer.

"I don't understand," Keene starts. And she doesn't understand either, why he's talking all of a sudden, when they're better when they're silent. When Jill can pretend she's dead inside like it's a joke rather than an affliction. "Why they let you on this case."

She puts out her cigarette on the hood of the car, because it's not like it belongs to her, not really. The government owns it. All she owns is herself. "Why? Why do you give a fuck?"

"I read your personnel file."

At that she bristles. Of all the fucking things she has maimed, killed, destroyed, her file is the thing she wishes she could have gotten to first. Set it up in flames so she's the only one who will ever remember. Scatter the ashes on the river.

"These girls we're looking for, you're like them."

She doesn't wait to hiss back at him, "I'm nothing like these girls."

"You..."

"Stop!" she doesn't realize she screams it.

\--

Benny invites her to his apartment, says they can have something fancy brought around, since she doesn't like going out. To her, it doesn't matter. What matters are her feet are cold and she can stick them under Benny's ass and he doesn't complain that makes the couch all lumpy for him to sit on.

His fingers trace patterns against her bare thigh, just below the cuff of her shorts, that spell out his feelings. They've known, always known, she'll react poorly if he says them aloud. Like that time he filled her with lead. Real trip, that was. 

With hair that smells like citrus, he smiles and says she's in charge.

\--

They're under the overpass and Keene says she's a wreck. As soon as he can, he'll get her suspended, indicted, kicked off the force. She drops the clip from her gun into the gravel, informing Keene it'll never stick. Humans are racist fucks and will never believe his words over hers.

Keene asks her what she is, if not human. Laughing without smiling, exposing the pale line of her throat, she counters that last night, he was the one comparing her to smuggled goods.

"Those girls are still girls, still humans," Keene counters.

"You don't believe that. If you did, you wouldn't do this job. You don't think humans are worth saving."

She knows she's got him, because he stays real quiet, finishing his takeaway in silence. The ship still hasn't come in.

When he's on top of her, pinning her to the hood of the car, her wrists trapped in the cage of his massive hands, she doesn't bother to be scared. Being scared gets her nowhere. His body presses down into hers so harshly that she goes limp at first, best way to slither out from under him, but she doesn't try to get away. His breath rolls down her neck as he smells her. She can feel the flare of his nostrils. 

"And what," she keeps her voice low. This time she won't scream. "You violate me here? Now? like this? You wouldn't."

Keene's head drops, precariously close to her lips. If she moves her neck, tilts her head, she'd have his mouth against hers. That's the way she wins this. His hands tighten around her wrists as the presses her lips to his, parts him with her tongue, proves to him she'll never be afraid. Not by the likes of him.

The roll of his body against hers is heavy, foreign, like this she's got no space to maneuver with the car at her back and Keene everywhere else. She pushes back, well as she can, arching her back and pushing her breasts against his chest, her hips next as she flexes as moves. He responds, smashing his hips down so hard she's sure she's gonna bruise. Biting at the corner of his lip, she almost makes a sound, but instead it's just a puff of wordless air.

When he realizes he's been had, he jumps away from her so violently, the car below her heaves. He punches the hood of his car in frustration when he walks away, leaving an apple sized dent in the metal. Better the car than in her.


	3. Resolve

Boone doesn’t let her smoke in the car anymore because he’s trying to quit. Says they’re gonna have a baby soon, so he wants to be around for as long as possible for the kid. Doesn’t want to blacken his lungs up anymore. Jill chews her gum and stares out the window, she knows Carla isn’t pregnant yet. 

Instead of spitting out her gum when it loses all flavor she just keeps on chewing til it’s hard at the back of her jaw. She cracks the window when the air gets too heavy.

She likes having Boone as her partner but not for much else. At least he’s quiet, predictable too. Always gets to the precinct before her, keeps his hands in his lap waiting for her to arrive, to have her first cup of coffee. No matter how many times she tells him to stop he’ll hold the door open for her. He’s got some messed up sense of white-knight chivalry she just hates. But that problem is minor enough.

They don’t talk and Jill wonders if they’re partners because neither of them bother to waste extra words on stupid things like basic human decency. Like how they partnered up Keene and Dog. But that’s not fair to Boone because he’s a good guy and Jill knows she’s not. There’s so much ash in her lungs from things that shouldn’t have been on fire in the first place. At the end of the line, Boone might take more of the fall than she does, if only because he’s got his head buried in the sand like, what’s that bird? Emu? Shame about that.

They pull up to the club and Jill fumbles with her badge from her back pocket. Detectives Boone and Ahmadi, yeah we’re here with some questions. They probably weren’t the people to send to ask the Omerta’s questions about girls with no names arriving by boats with no records. But here they are. 

Inside she asks if she can smoke with the cigarette already between her lips. Nero leans forward to light it for her, like they’re real chummy or something. She blows smoke in his face, but from the way he smiles, she’s pretty sure he liked it. 

She and Boone are not the detectives for this job, even if they are for this case. Nero sings songs around them that make her head hurt. Though they’re all lies, she can’t trick him to truth, not under his suit and smile and cologne. On the way out the door, he asks her, “Hey, aren’t you Gecko’s girl?”

At least she’s clever enough to call back that “Benny has a lot of friends. Mostly nicer than me.”

Resisting the urge to put out her last cigarette on the back of his hand, she instead says they’ll be in touch. Thanks for your time, scumbag. 

In the car Boone grunts about doing better. Jill doesn’t care about being better for herself. She’s fine with two day old takeaway, stale gum, and long hours. She’s okay not being Benny’s girl. The dent in Keene’s car? She’s alright with that too. The other day she blew into his ear while he was sitting at his desk, spooked him so bad he dropped his phone, shattering the screen. 

But there are girls in shipping containers swallowing their rage by the heaping spoonfuls, waiting for someone to hand them a weapon. So, yeah, Jill resolves to do better too.


	4. Usually Never

Keene doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to look at the sweep of dark hair running loose down her back, or the oversized mustard-yellow sweater with off-white snowflakes splattered across the front that she’s convinced herself is long enough for her to wear as a dress. The thin belt cinches it in at her waist, but makes the wool ride up her thighs too.He’s so busy not wanting to look at Jill that he doesn’t see the man at her side. He’s a tacky suit coat that looks like it has passed through multiple rounds of thrift stores before ending up on his shoulders. Slicked hair and slicker smile, he’s Benny, of course.

Benny sticks out his hand like they know each other. Like they’ve done anything but meet in passing when he swings by in the morning to pick up Jill from the precinct on rare occasions. She never smiles when she sees him. Keene can’t help but think if she cared for Benny, she would smile.

After a couple glasses of spiked punch, courtesy of Detective Cassidy, Keene rips off that stupid beard Dog talked him into. Maybe that will keep Benny’s snide remarks about ‘sitting in Santa’s lap’ at bay. Honestly, the first time he said it, Keene was confused, thought he misheard. The second time was just weird. With the third, Benny slid his hand down Keene’s chest, all the way to the waistband of his jeans. Took a lot of self-control not to tear off that hand right at the joint. Keene certainly had the strength for it.

But Benny leaves early, while Jill still has a plastic cup in her hand. She sways a little, curls her finger in the belt-loop of Benny’s slacks and says goodbye. When she backs up to let him leave, she spills neon-pink punch onto one of her satin ballet flats. 

Keene can’t look away, he needs to lay off the liquor.

Twenty minutes later Dog is asking where Jill went. Keene assumes the worst, says he’ll look, and heads for the evidence locker. Ever since she mentioned destroying evidence, maybe a joke, maybe not, he’s been wondering why exactly she is here. Careless about the work as she is, he can’t imagine she wants to be here. There’s something else. There’s something about her and Benny that just makes his skin crawl.

The evidence locker is empty, except for, of course, evidence. And Doc Arcade was still at the party, which means that the lab downstairs is all locked up. Unless Jill knows the passcode, somehow. But she can barely work her phone half the time, much less the electronic lock in the basement. 

There’s a simple answer, but the simple answer won’t satisfy Keene. Still, he grabs his coat from the hook on his way out and down the stairs.

And there she is, not quite fifteen-feet from the entrance like she’s supposed to be, sucking down her cigarette. Simple answer that Keene got all worked up about.

Her free arm, the left one because she uses the right to smoke, wraps around her waist while she shivers. Pulls up the sweater a little more. Keene tries not to look at the pale backs of her thighs, the gap leading up from her knees, knocking together when she shivers. He’d feel bad for her, but there’s no use.

When the door clicks shut behind him she turns. A little startled at first, until she recognizes him. Only two people it could have been, with heavy footsteps like his. And Dog would have been much louder. 

She holds out her cigarette pack and lighter in her left hand, offering it to him.

“Why do you always do that?” He always refuses.

“It’s polite.” Her hand wraps back around the pack, then her arm wraps back around her waist. 

Keene narrows his gaze, tries to ignore the fact she’s shaking beside him. There’s nothing he can do about that. She was stupid to have forgotten her coat. 

“You’re not polite.”

“How would you know?”

They’re nothing but co-workers with terse conversations and coffee stains between them. And once, when he was stupid, he locked her body between his and the hood of her department car and kissed her breathless. He still hasn’t filed the damage report for the dent in his vehicle. Casualty of the aftermath.

“Why are you here?” It’s his honest question, though he doesn’t expect an honest answer. 

Jill tilts her head, exposing her throat to him. She’s a tiny thing next to him, in the flat shoes and a dress that isn’t a dress. So vulnerable. But he knows better. When she exhales it’s smoke, then her breath caught in the cold.

“I’m smoking.” She puts the cigarette back to her lips. Left to her own devices, she’ll take two or three, right after one another. 

That isn’t what he meant. “I mean, why do you work here? Why are you a detective. You’re terrible at it. I’ve never seen a person care less about anything.”

“You’ve never seen me do anything else, then.” And she smiles. Keene doesn’t like it. “And what about you, huh?” Putting out her cigarette against the stone wall, she just tosses the remains to the floor. “Who are you?”

The question is odd. How much has she had to drink. “What do you mean? I’m Keene.”

“Right,” she steps towards him so her head is just at his chest. Little thing that she is, her presence shouldn’t have so much force against him. Shouldn’t make him step back. But he does. “You are, Detective Williams, but…” Her voice trails off. Despite the fact they’re not friends, their surnames don’t suit them either. Like they’re too private because they harken back to pasts they want to forget.

Her file says Ahmadi but before that, Brooks. Not so strange, but Brooks is a corpse buried ten years prior, and his pretty wife came out of nowhere. And Keene can’t find Jill Ahmadi anywhere. He’s looked.

“What are you thinking about, Keene?”

“You,” he admits.

Jill gets so angry she throws her cigarettes and lighter against the wall. The lighter is cheap, busts open on impact, fluid sliding down to meet the pavement. 

“This is fucking unfair.” She grabs the front of his jacket. It can’t button because it’s not big enough. Only barely fits over Keene’s shoulders. Must have belonged to a big guy before. A big human. “You read my fucking file, and for what? You selfish fuck. What am I supposed to do about it?”

He wants to roar in her face that he never cared in the first place. But that’s a lie. Of course he did. Because something about all of this isn’t right. And he’s a good detective who wants to make it right. She’s wrong and he’ll figure out why.

But he doesn’t scream at her, though she’s wailing pretty loud, liquor on her breath and fists bunched against his chest, warm. She’s warm but still shaking. And her hair smells like citrus and peppermint under that stench of her perfume that haunts him every time she passes his desk. Every time they have to sit in a vehicle together. Each and every time. 

Keene wants her to stop shaking, then start again. 

Grabbing her by the hips, he gets her up against the wall, her hair falling forward, a dark curtain as she hits it maybe too hard. But she’s not easily broken. Keene knows well enough. 

“Who are you?” she asks. 

He wishes, just for a moment, he could tell her. But he can’t. It’s pointless. He’s not that man. He’s this. He’s got a woman pinned against the wall, her sweater riding up until he can see the scrap of white between her legs. Keene wants to bury himself there. Because this woman won’t stop haunting him. That man he was could have had her. In a fucking heartbeat. 

When he doesn’t answer, she kisses him of her own volition, runs her tongue along his lips until they part. Until he is kissing back, trying to drown her as he is being drowned. A wash of frustration that will never go anywhere. Even with her toes pointed, she can’t reach the ground.

Keene grows hard against her, his erection pressing between her thighs, layers of fabric slowing their friction. He forgets himself, that they are outside, exposed. And it doesn’t matter that he’s a detective, because this looks like a crime he’s committing. 

But she stops shaking. She whispers, “Keene” against his neck and all of this almost feels real. Like she is more than a pretty bauble he can’t afford to purchase.


	5. Clicks

There are two different coffee rings on Keene’s desk. One from his old mug, the one she broke, with that fracture down the ceramic that splintered apart when he poured too-hot coffee into it. One stain is from the slightly larger mug he borrowed from Dog. Borrowed but never returned. Dog hasn’t asked. The other nightkin doesn’t really like coffee anyway. He’s always bringing in a tumbler filled with something blended at home. Smells like a fresh grocer and Keene’s not sure if he likes it or not. Sometimes the scent of it is just too sharp.

Dog’s already in with the sargent and that kid from HR, getting his performance review. Keene tried to run through the basics with Dog over the last few days, how to not open himself up for criticism, how to spin negatives into positives. How to keep his damn mouth shut about the newest dent in their vehicle. It’s probably all for naught though because Dog is just too good of a guy who is too bad at his job.

Keene sighs, opens up the case report on top of the ever ascending pile of papers on his desk, and tries to work.

But he doesn’t get anything done because Jill is right there, smelling like coffee and too-strong perfume. Keene can’t make out the ‘notes,’ or however the fuck someone describes perfume. Just that it’s too strong down the line of her neck and he hates it. Dog, Dog could probably tell him what the perfume is supposed to smell like, but then Keene would have to tell Dog that he’s been thinking too much about how Jill smells.

Having absolutely no sense of personal space, Jill parks her ass on the corner of Keene’s desk, perilously close to his mug of coffee. It shifts around a little, threatening to slosh out, but he’s already drank enough that it just circles the brim instead of spilling. For such a little thing, she makes a big disturbance. 

“Your review today?” She asks. As if she could possibly care.

Keene grunts, trying to focus on the photographs. A girl, pretty, maybe, blonde. Mole on her left cheek, hardened scar on her left hip, creeping across her abdomen. The dentals brought back nothing. The right side of her face smashed in, like pulp. That’s the other photo though, from when they turned her over. And that band on her wrist, bright purple and a size too big. Could have slipped it off, but she didn’t, maybe there wasn’t time?

Jill perches her feet on the armrest to his shitty metal and outdated upholstered swivel chair. The kind of shit only publically funded institutions ever buy. When her shoes tap against the metal, it makes the most awful noise. Keene turns, with the intention of telling her to fuck off, but he forgets as he glimpses the way her short legs fill out tight jeans. They are entirely too close. Makes him bristle. She makes him bristle. 

“I had mine yesterday.” She leans forward a touch, resting crossed arms over her bent knees. Folded up as she is, any movement of his chair might send her toppling. Keene stays very still. “Went okay, you’ll do okay too.”

“Thank you,” he starts sarcastically, “for the vote of confidence.” There isn’t a damn thing he wants from her. 

“You’re good at this, and I’m not. So, if I did okay, you’ll do okay too.”

Keene wants to bite back. Fuck does he want to bite back, that their situations, their stations in life, aren’t even vaguely analogous. Jill is human. He is not. That is the end of this story. And it always will be. Forever and ever. Like a fucking fairytale. 

Humanness affords her everything. Everything. And if she can’t recognize it, well, it’s not his job to open her eyes. Because Keene hates humans. Even Jill. Especially Jill.

Strands of black hair fall loose from her hastily tied ponytail, dropping onto her shoulders, across her face. The contrast of it makes her skin look even paler. He wants, Keene wants many things. They’ve gone right up to the edge before. And they’ll probably do it again. Right now he wants to knock her on her back, pin her down if she’s so fucking intent on taking up space across his desk. Push her down against the metal and chipboard of his shitty desk and devour the scent that runs along her skin. He wants to trap her arms above her head, slot his cock into her tight cunt as she thrashes around him. He wants the air full of her voice, pleading, desperate for him. Screaming that she wants him to fuck her until she can’t scream anymore.

But instead Keene takes up his coffee, takes a long sip. It’s not so hot anymore, more lukewarm. Still, he likes its bitterness. When he shifts his chair, Jill nearly topples to the floor. She manages to catch her balance just in time, her feet hitting the ground harder than they probably should. 

Keene keeps his eyes on the photographs. They’re morbid, but they’re his job.

He just manages to catch Jill’s wrist before her perilously close hand nearly touches his face. Her wrist is so tiny in his hand, like he could wrap it twice over. When he looks to her face to question what the fuck is going on, she’s completely impassive.

But it isn’t his imagination, right? She was going to touch his face. But why?

When he releases her wrist, she turns away, her shoes clicking against the tile as she walks to her desk, the scent of her fading with each step.


	6. Leaving

Jill brings beer. Now, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense that she does, only she had to stop at the convenience store anyway for a pack of cigarettes, so she bought a six pack of beer too. People like beer. It's nice to bring beer. So, in a roundabout way, Jill figures she's good for getting it.

Knocking at Keene's door seems out of character for her. Not being at his door. That seems normal enough. It's the same as drinking all the coffee at the precinct or the way she knocks into the corner of his desk, making everything on top of it rattle. The bruises on her hips are worth the disquieted look on his face every time she does it. Pulling his pigtails is a normal thing. What an odd metaphor to use with Keene...he doesn't have hair, much less pigtails. But the knocking at his apartment door is out of character, because in her mind, she should be able to just waltz in, she shouldn't have to wait, her hands trembling.

She wears flat shoes, and her hair loose. She thinks she looks good in tight jeans, a sleeveless shirt that skims against her body. If asked, she'd say that she doesn't know why she's here. Or that it doesn't matter. But she does; and it does.

When Keene doesn’t immediately appear she nearly loses her nerve. Closing her hand around the cardboard of the six pack, she clenches until the handle cuts against her palm. But leaving would be losing, admitting that she’s unsure, afraid, even. And she can’t be having that.

On the other side of the door she can hear Keene’s footfall. They stop just short of the door, he must be waiting.

“Who is it?” he sounds so unsure, like he doesn’t get visitors much. Seems logical enough. Who would visit him? His partner? Maybe?

She takes down a gulp of air. “It’s me.”

“Jill?” The chain slides, the deadbolt, then the lock. There’s still a moment to run for it, if she takes it.

Once Keene has the door open, eyes a little blurry, there’s nowhere for her to run. He looks a bit like he had been sleeping, the way he rubs at the corner of one eye with his index finger. 

His arm rests high on the doorframe as he leans forward. “Why are you here, Jill?”

She pushes between his body and the frame, slipping into his apartment. The beer nicks the wall, the glass tinkling softly. “I brought beer.”

Once she’s inside, he turns round, leaving the door open. He crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s not an answer.”

Good, great. He’s already angry, business as usual, then. 

The apartment is tiny, cluttered, with stacks of paper and unwashed coffee mugs. Jill makes straight for the kitchen, tossing the beers too roughly into the fridge. She takes two straight back out again. There’s a bottle opener on her keychain. 

“I didn’t invite you in.” He blocks the whole doorway between the tiny kitchen and the equally tiny living space. Barely enough room to turn around. 

She says nothing, just passes him one of the open beers. Presses it against him, really, until he’s got no choice but to take it. If she drinks hard enough, long enough, she won’t have to answer his question. If only she were good at the talking part. 

“What are you watching?” she asks, hearing the hum of the television from the other room.

“Nothing.” Keene drinks with just as much abandon until he’s pushing past her to get into the fridge for another. He takes two, then fishes her keychain out of the front pocket of her jeans. The keys scrape against her through the fabric. 

The second beer doesn’t go down as easy as the first. Her stomach already feels sort of full, like tides crashing all around. Rising up until they hit the back of her throat and she feels like she might puke. But she pushes it back, takes another gulp. 

“You should have brought more, if this was what we were gonna do.” Coming from anyone but Keene, that might have been a joke.

Since it isn’t a joke, she pulls out her cigarette pack from her back pocket, along with her lighter.

Keene scowls, “Could you not?”

She flicks the lighter, bringing up the flame, a cigarette already between her lips. And fucking hell, she hesitates. Lets the fire go out. Feels like she should say something, but it’s the nausea that’s got her voice again. Right, the nausea.

“What’s on tv, Keene?” She doesn’t have any better questions, and she’s got zero answers. 

He’s got the last two beers, even though she’s only half through her second. Serves her right for all the coffee she’s stolen from him over the year they’ve worked together. If he doesn’t answer her, she might just choke something up to fill the silence. She just wants to drink beer and watch television and pretend like she knows why she showed up at this man’s apartment. Wait, no, she slipped up, because she’s not supposed to think of him as a man, right? Mutant. That just seems impersonal for Keene. She forgets.

“I only get four channels.” He’s picking at the label on the bottle, shredding it away. Only when she notices what he’s doing, does Jill realize she’s done the same to both of hers.

“We’ll find something,” she offers as a means of transition from one room to the next. 

But he stops her, stepping towards the frame when she tries to slip under her arm again. Grabbing her hips, Keene pushes her back, and back, until she’s up off the floor and in his hands. He sets her on the countertop, her back inches from the cabinets behind her. There’s no way he cooks in here. It’s clean, -ish. But his fridge was empty and there are no dishes.

Keene struggles with the button on her jeans, already cursing at it. If she does nothing, he’ll wreck them. She tries hopping off the countertop, to at least get her pants off before he ruins them. Not like she expected this to go another way. But he stops her with one hand, holding her in place. Slowly now, he works the button open, then the zip. He has to concentrate, but he gets it down. The shoes are easy, they just slip off.

Rougher, now, pulling the jeans off her thighs. Jill lifts her hips up enough that Keene can slide them down. He slides down too, kneeling before her. With all his extra height, his his head is in the right place. His hands push apart her thighs, though it’s not like she resists.

She doesn’t have a reason, but they were always heading here, weren’t they? Jill wants meaning more than she’ll ever admit. She wants there to be a pretty, pre-packaged reason for the things she does. She wants.

Parting her lips herself with her index and middle fingers, Jill invites Keene to taste. His head between her thighs, she doesn’t know where to touch with her free hand. Each time she reaches for hair and finds none, she’s reminded. Instead she grabs at the collar of his white tee, stretched taut against his shoulders. It’s too small. She fists her hand in the fabric, rolls her hips against the lashing of his tongue. Really, she knew it would be like this, that it would be good.

When he tries to move his hand to her cunt she bats it away, uninterested with anything other than his lips, tongue, mouth. But it’s hot and vicious, soft. Keeps as quiet as she can because she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing her voice, when she keeps it so scarce otherwise. It’s not for him. 

Her stomach tightens, a hard knot she can’t shake until she shivers, until it is forced out of her. He whines in frustration against her, of course he does, because Keene wants more than she’s willing to give. And she’s forever just out of his reach, even like this, his big hands clenching around her thighs, his face between her legs. 

“Jill,” the way he says her name makes her forget a lot of things.

With the contact of his lips against hers, the back of her head hits the cabinet. His palms cradle her head, like this is something sweet at the tip of their tongue, like this is a moment that could be extended onward and outward in time. 

His forehead is against hers; his erection pressed to her thigh. 

“Does Benny know you’re here?” The question alone makes her blood boil. This is why the moment doesn’t extend, why they are perpetually cut short. She doesn’t know why she goes to him; but she knows why she leaves.

But she says nothing, running her fingers along the line of his erection. He hisses at the contact. 

“You don’t have a bed,” it’s an observation, not a question.   
“No, just the couch.”

She should go. He’s already upset her with stupid questions. But she’s probably done the same. 

He helps her off the counter, though she doesn’t need it. Jill pulls her pants back on. Had Keene not mentioned Benny, she might have been in the mood to reciprocate. She’s not sure how, but she would have figured it out.

The television is playing highlights from the baseball game earlier in the day. Jill lies across the couch, taking up as much room as she can, but her feet still stop short of the end. 

“What the fuck, Jill. Why are you here?” His voice is a little desperate. He cares, not about her, but about this.

Unwilling, unable to answer, she swings her feet back onto the floor. Her shoes are still in the kitchen.

“No, wait,” maybe he’s realized something, “stay.”

Keen lies down on the couch, his legs dangling off the edge, but he looks comfortable, because it’s familiar. Jill slides in with him, mostly on top of him. Basically all on top of him. There’s no space otherwise. 

It’s like a parody of intimacy they will never actually achieve. His nose is in her hair; he’s smelling her.

“I-” he starts.

“It doesn’t matter.” She grips onto his shirt.


	7. Skitter

Since he's come to work this evening Dog has been...funny. And not his usual sort of odd either. First, he was late. And Dog is a lot of things, but he isn't typically late. Plus, there's no packed-lunch leftovers for Keene. Which is fine, he shouldn't be taking advantage of his partner's generosity. But it's still odd.

Keene flips through the mostly finished reports on his desk. There aren't any new cases for them, at least not yet. Boone and Ahmadi are out working a case. Cassidy's feet are up on her desk while she rifles through a magazine. Some tech thing that must belong to her girlfriend, because Keene can't imagine her picking it up on her own.

He doesn't have to look over to know Dog keeps looking back at him, chewing on his lip, then looking away. He's done it four or five times already. It's starting to make Keene itch. He's ripping up his lips with his teeth too.

"You have something to say, Dog?"

Dog bumbles out something that sound like "Sorry, no," but keeps on doing it. Keene just wants to finish his paperwork.

Ahmadi and Boone get back to the station. Her hair is sticking to her sweaty forehead, starting to curl where it touches moisture. She's been running. Keene tries not to think about how her tiny tits must bounce when she sprints.

Dog looks at him again and when Keene catches him in the act he squeaks an apology. It's not worth asking again.

Jill lingers too long in the kitchenette. Keene follows her in, under the auspices of making sure she's not wrecking it. She just staring at the pot of coffee, grounds spread out across the countertop. She somehow fucked this up.

Keene starts wiping down the counter. Jill doesn't say a word, but when the coffee is ready, she pours two cups.

"Why is your partner looking at you like he wants to suck your dick?"

Keene freezes, wet paper towel still in his hand. He can feel the specks of coffee through the film.

"What?"

"Dog keeps looking at you like he's blushing virgin on the prowl for his first lay. Didn't know he was into that." She sips her coffee, not bothering with the powdered creamer. 

"No he doesn't."

"He does, I know that look." She quirks her dark eyebrow.

Keene's mouth goes dry. There's something about the cant of her hip, the way her shirt rides up under her jacket. And he's thinking about her tits again, how little they are in his hands, how soft. He wants to throw her over the counter, or better yet, put her on her knees. If that's what's on her mind-

"Benny looks at you like that every time he sees you." With that, she turns, marching out with her mug of coffee.

Now, Keene has absolutely nothing to say.

\--

It's not until they're in the car that Keene tries to ask Dog again. This time, he's gruff and authoritative. "Dog. What. Is. Wrong?"

"Do you think it's gay," Dog stumbles around with his words. "If a guy gives you a plant, not flowers, but a plant?"

Keene's sorry he asked. He puts his eyes back on the road. "I can't believe, no, actually, I can."

They don't talk again on the way to the crime scene.

\--

"Something is up with your partner," Cassidy perches her ass right on the edge of Keene's desk. As usual, her partner is nowhere to be found.

"And where is Detective Tejada?"

Cassidy shrugs, unconcerned. "But really, something is up with him. And you. Maybe you should hash it out?"

"It's nothing." Keene wishes he could disappear into the floorboards. 

\--

He's coming out of the stall in the men's room and she's there. Like she belongs there. Like it's not weird Jill is standing next to the sink smoking indoors and batting the fumes away from the detector.

"Jill?" he should be angrier, shout at her to get the fuck out. But she really looks like she belongs. She taps off her ash in the sink.

"Keene, funny meeting you here." she smirks around her cigarette.

"What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you." She blows smoke into her cupped hand. Anything to keep it away from the alarm.

When she finishes, putting out the butt on the porcelain sink, Keene grabs her. He backs her into the wall, careful this time that she doesn't hit her head. She's too fucking short. So they end up like always, with him lifting her up off the ground, using the wall to hold her in place at his height.

"You'd look better on your knees," she rasps. 

She slaps him across the face, hard. But she doesn't say to put her down, to stop. Instead, she smiles, tobacco stained teeth behind red lips.

He kisses her. He puts the last several days of his frustration into it. The back and forth, the words she won't say. The affection and lust she won't give freely. He'll rip it from her bones.

Jill wraps her arms around Keene's shoulders, meeting him at every turn, biting back twice as hard. Her cunt is warm against his waist, he can feel it, even through her jeans. She wants, like he wants. 

He rips at the buttons on her blouse. The top two come loose, skittering across the floor.

The door swings open, Boone on the other side. He stands stone still, without a word.

"Hey, Boone. I'm helping Keene with a case," she says like that explains everything.

Boone doesn't ask questions.


	8. Merry Go-round

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter corresponds to Choco's [Ferris Wheel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5111786)

The whole premise is ridiculous. No amount of ‘team building’ is about to fix what's broken in the department. Jill long ago accepted she's part of the problem, a lot of the problem. In no way, shape, or form, however, is she the entirety of the problem. But if her Chief isn't going to fire her, she's not about to walk out. At least not until she's finished what they’ve started. This whole grand scheme of Benny’s only works if she's there, rifling through boxes at the right time, burning documents that don't mean anything, and planting other printouts into file folders. They just need a couple more months.

When she was young, was this how she saw her life? Jill isn't entirely sure she could imagine a future before she turned twenty. So, no, she didn't. But this is where she ended up.

The department mandated that they all go to the carnival together. When she told Benny, he just laughed, wiping tears from his eyes. She scowled at him, saying it wasn't funny, before crawling into his lap. That shut him up pretty good. Only now he's smiling about it again.

“You look good,” he stands behind her, bumping her hips between his hands so she sways back and forth. She's trying to put her hair into two braids so it doesn't get too wrecked with whatever they're about to do. Wearing tiny shorts and one of Benny’s hundred dollar tshirts, she knows full well how she looks.

“Quit being an ass,” she plucks her cigarette from the ashtray. Gotta finish it before she does her lips.

Benny leans over to put his head on her shoulder. His arms squeeze her tighter to his chest. “Do I gotta worry?”

Jill laughs, “about what?” She lets herself smile because Benny won't misinterpret it. Never once has he told her to ‘smile more.’ With him, she can scowl all she wants.

Knowing well enough she's gotta keep still while she puts on her eyeliner, Benny stands up straight again. He keeps his arms around her waist. “You said Keene has been asking questions?”

When she's done with the wing on her left eye, she shrugs. The right one is always harder for her. “Not about that. About me though, and you.” Everything's about her. Sometimes it's about Benny. She smudges the right wing. Fuck. “About, you know.” Explaining isn't something she's willing to do.

Benny kisses the side of her neck before letting her finish up getting ready on her own.

\--

Boone picks her up in his practical family sedan to drive them both over to the carnival. Now the poor guy just needs the family to go in it. Jill doesn't ask Carla about it because she doesn't really care and it's none of her fucking business. She doesn't have to ask Boone because it slips out at the most inappropriate of times. Like when they find small limbs in fat, bloody suitcases.

Jill can practically smell the sugar strings in the air as they approach. It's clogging up her pores with overwhelming stickiness. When she complains, Boone mumbles that he kinda likes it. Of course he does.

With Boone’s punctuality leading the way, they've arrived before everyone else. There's a big sign out front that says ‘No Smoking.’ Not like Jill’s gonna head the warning but she makes a show out of finishing her cigarette anyway. It’ll kill time. Boone waits for her even though she insists it isn't necessary. They’re the fucking police; she doesn't need protecting.

By the time she's through with her second cigarette, Keene, Cass, and Veronica all roll in. So now is as good a time as any to head to their designated ‘team building retreat.’ Jill shoves her pack into one of her back pockets. In the other she's got her badge and cell.

Veronica trots up behind Jill, lifting her cell and slipping it into her purse. “You'll lose it in like three minutes,” Vero chirps. Begrudgingly, Jill hands over her cigarettes too, but holds onto her badge. Her credit card is slipped inside the case.

Jill likes Vero, as much as she can like anyone. Cass’ girlfriend is inoffensive. Jill means that in the best way possible. Vero loves her job and her girlfriend and fuzzy animals. Sometimes there are pictures of ED-E with ears pinned to the top of his metal casting. Today, Vero whips out her outrageously huge phone to show Jill pictures of Rex cuddled around the eyebot.

“I was worried at first that they wouldn't get along. And there was a ton of growling at first. And beeping. So much beeping,” Vero scrunches her nose. “But now they can't be separated. I've set up a tumblr that is just pictures of them snuggling, look!” She flips through the apps on her phone with lightning speed. Makes Jill’s head spin. Jill can barely pull up her email on her phone.

Jill and Vero just sort of follow the pack of detectives over to the makeshift site. While Chief arranged for this particular brand of hell, they haven't bothered to show up to their own damn event. Why, why would they pick a place where Jill can't reasonably smoke? Arcade is going to be pissed too, if he ever shows up. The medical examiner likes to pretend he's given up the habit, snuffing out his cigarettes when Jill bothers to go outside to partake rather than make use of the (men’s) bathroom.

Cass eventually has the good sense to drag her girlfriend away, rattling off that they've gotta eat quick before she's gotta “build some fucking teams.” She's far too excited about all this. Biting her tongue, Jill wants to point out that of all the partners on the force, Cass and Raul are maybe the most lax in actually performing their job duties. But throwing stones in glass houses seems like a poor decision, because Jill is purposely deceitful and Craig is just sort of slow.

Jill perches her ass on the edge of a park table, her feet planted on the seat, and tries to look busy on her phone. The scent of sugar and grease is already making her feel kind of ill. That and Keene hasn't bothered to trot off in search of snacks with the others.

Why can't he just be like the others? Stupid or slow or too fucking nice for his own good? All of those are positions in the hierarchy of humans that Jill can comfortably brush off. No matter how much she scrubs, Keene won't break loose of her skin.

But he doesn't come close. He leans against a different table, trying to look busy on his phone too. How does he work the buttons? Jill has tiny hands with thin, delicate fingers, prone to breaking on the job. When they pulled her out of the grave, her entire left hand had been smashed open. The doctors thought she had tried to dig her way out. She never corrected them. Amazing what medicine can do though. She flexes her hand, then makes a fist.

She sighs and goes back to her phone.

Cass comes back with a hotdog shoved half in her mouth, Vero munching on something on a stick. Boone has unidentifiable fried things in both of his hands. And it's just now ten am. Raul, Dog, and Arcade are late.

The sun bursts through the clouds. Jill remembers the sunglasses on top of her head and pulls them down. When she looks up from her phone, Keene has done the same.

\--

Keene types out texts to Jill. Takes him a long time to get the keys right, even though he's set them to the largest option. Then he deletes what he typed, writes something else. He never hits send.

Then there would be some sort of record, at least between devices. As if they're some sort of secret now. Yeah right. Boone caught them in the fucking bathroom, Jill’s shirt pushed up and her thighs wrapped around Keene’s waist. Boone isn't the sharpest tack, but there was no mistaking what was transpiring when he walked in on them. No one is that dense. Boone knows. Keene hates that he cares. He hates that he feels shame rather than pride. That he got the pretty little detective all hot and bothered, got her to spread her legs. Maybe because Ahmadi is such a fucking asshole.

Dog shows his face for the first time with handfuls of salts and sweets and insists that Keene should try something. It's perfectly fine that he didn't want to go out to the stalls and even though it's still early, things were busy, but Dog brought back plenty, and Keene really, really should try. His partner is like a perpetual motion machine, tossing down card stock containers of greasy foods, chewing with his mouth open. This is typical Dog, though normally he's pushing more refined foods in Keene’s face, insisting that there is more to the world than Chinese takeout and oven-bake pizzas. Haphazardly, Keene picks over the cheese fries.

“You're late,” Keene observes. The squeeze cheese sticks to his teeth.

Dog looks flustered from the get-go. “No! I was here on time, but I didn't see anyone else. So I went to get food. Instead of waiting. And see, the others are only coming now!” Dog takes a long slurp of his root beer. Drains half the cup.

Keene stands up, lifting his arms above his head and stretching out the stiffness that formed while he was engrossed in not-texting Jill.

Raul and Arcade have arrived as well, along with the facilitator hired by the department. He’s a fit guy who wears a whistle around his neck and basketball shorts that are far too huge for his frame. Also his hair is stupid. On top of that, he smiles in a way that is too much. Not real. Like he really fucking hates his job and is about to pummel them all if they talk back.

When he calls them all forward, Jill barely grazes Keene on her way past. Muttering under her breath, Keene barely catches the words, “I'm not drunk enough for this.” Implying that she is, at least, a little drunk. Keene can't smell liquor on her though. Just citrus, smoke.

They start out with a rope-pull. The facilitator barks that they should be on the same team as their partners, not realizing what a disaster that’ll be. Arcade assumes that means he gets to be excluded from this particular activity. The medical examiner parks his ass on the bench, ready to watch the others embarrass themselves.

“Should have brought popcorn,” Arcade leans back, spreading his arms across the length of the tabletop.

Quickly the facilitator realizes that his scheme puts both hulking supermutants on the same team and he scrambles to break up the teams more equitably. But that leaves Keene, Boone, and Jill on one side, Dog, Cass, and Raul on the other. Those aren't fair teams either but Keene isn't about to articulate that.

Keene gives up on fighting and just grabs the end of the rope. They plunk Jill in front because she's the shortest but it also means that when they inevitably lose she's going face first into the dirt. Keene gets some sort of sick pleasure out of the idea her carefully constructed veneer is going to get wrecked. Without the department regulations to hold her back, she's put on twice as much makeup as she would normally, though her hair sits against her shoulders in rumpled braids. Also she's not wearing enough in terms of clothing, her tee shirt nearly subsuming her tiny jean shorts.

The facilitator yells go.

Jill screams, “If we fucking lose I'm castrating you both,” which may qualify as sexual harassment on her part but Keene also knows he's going to be implicated real fast if the truth comes out. His stomach ties in knots because again, fucking again, he's reminded how she holds all the cards. She always will.

Well, the threat at least gets Boone to try harder and somehow, miraculously, Keene can make out Cass’ feet sliding forward on the other side. Dog is strong, much stronger than Keene, which can only mean that Cass, or more likely, Raul, isn't trying very hard. If at all.

The more they win the more Jill shouts, big and bright and totally unlike herself. Maybe she really is drunk. When Cass starts toppling over, Raul flopping on top of her and Dog trying desperately not to land on top of the two much smaller detectives, Jill starts laughing. Honestly laughing. But the sound is so foreign to Keene he actually smiles. It's like listening to a tone-deaf bird try and sing. He means it in a sarcastic sort of way. Like he's figured out Jill’s secret, what makes her happy. Who cares if that thing is people falling flat on their faces? But as it tugs at the corners of his mouth, it becomes genuine. He likes her tin-can laugh.

She turns back, still smiling. And it gets bigger just as she cranes her neck.

Keene makes the mistake of thinking it’s for him.

“Benny?” Jill drops the rope, half jogging away from her team and towards her boyfriend. As she approaches him she slows down, drops her hands into her front pockets. Strands of hair start coming loose from her braid.

Rope still in his hands, Keene stands silently, watching.

Benny smiles down at Jill, but Keene can't see her face anymore. Only that her hands are still in her pockets, pulling her shorts tight around her ass. Benny pulls at her tshirt before leaning down to kiss her. It's slow and gentle, not anything at all like she kisses Keene.

Keene’s never seen Benny’s bare arms before. They're all scarred and marked with ugly tattoos that creep out from the edges of his short sleeves. Jill's hands run along them without seeming at all purposeful.

Knocking into Keene’s shoulder, Dog mumbles that he's gotta go, because of, reasons. Keene should really ask him what reasons. Tossing down the rope, Keene already knows the day is a disaster. When he looks up again, Jill and Benny are gone.

\--

Jill fidgets with the paper wristband she's been shackled with. It's blue, which apparently means she's got admission to the park, she's there as part of a group, and she's over twenty-one. Not like she gets carded anymore because while she’s short, it's easy enough to discern her age from the lines around her eyes and mouth. Benny’s is green, which just means park admission and that she's not some sort of pervert. Like anyone would mistake Benny for a child.

They duck behind a shoddily constructed shelter to smoke because like hell they're going all the way back outside. If Jill makes it to the parking lot, she's fucking gone. Good riddance.

“Did you drive Carla?” she asks.

Benny nods, blows out smoke. “Veronica texted her first. They only got the one car.” Which seems silly to Jill because it's not like Carla and Craig aren't doing well. The bar is always packed when Jill goes in.

“You got that thing tonight though,” this is always how they talk, in half-formed thoughts and a string of ellipses. In the grand scheme of things, they haven't been together long. But they know each other. Somehow they always did. And that knowing means Benny never questions her. She never questions him. Like when she was out cold for six days because of that bullet from his gun, they saw inside each other. Mangled and brutalized and raw.

When they're done smoking, Jill fishes Benny’s flask from his back pocket. It's vodka. “Sometimes you're so good to me.” She takes a swig. It's not like she's trying to be drunk-drunk, just loose enough she doesn't have to think about how embarrassing this whole exercise is.

“I do what I can.”

He tastes the vodka off her tongue, letting her dictate how long and how tightly they stay pressed together behind the shed.

\--

“Pull your head out of your ass,” Keene says to Dog. He means to take the instruction himself as well.

Keene only found Dog trotting after the red-haired woman from the porn shop because he had gone looking for Jill. Not even to look for Jill. To look for that sleazebag boyfriend of hers. Undoubtedly they were together, doing something terrible.

But from the other side of a cotton candy tent Keene saw Dog, engrossed in his task of stalking the small woman with shocking hair. Apparently minding her own business on a date with a tall, wiry ghoul.

Dog, for his part looks appropriately brow beaten. Keene sighs heavily and turns, expecting Dog to follow. Heavy footsteps behind him, Keene is satisfied at least Dog listens to him. Dog tries to be good. He's just….Keene wants to say he's just young, that he’ll grow out of this weird phase that apparently now includes following witnesses around too-bright, too-noisy carnivals. But Dog was just standing there, still as could be, like he couldn't be seen. Like he can't see those wide, always-scared eyes that follow him through the crowd of people he towers over.

Maybe, sometimes, Keene wishes he could be more like Dog.

They make it back to the activity area together, Dog still dropping apologies. The facilitator flips through his phone, oblivious to the fact that the team he's supposed to be building has fucked right off. Well, Boone and Carla are still there, sitting on one of the benches, hips side by side. Carla whispers something in her husband’s ear and Boone flushes bright red. At least someone is enjoying himself.

\--

Benny offers to leave the flask with Jill. He brought it for her, after all, since he has to drive the Range Rover to his meeting downtown. As much as she wants to keep it, she's got nowhere to stash it. While she tries fitting it into her bra, that just makes it look like she's got a third breast. She's gotta content herself with one last swig.

On his way out, Benny says he’ll text her about what she wants for dinner.

That makes her feel warmer in her stomach than the liquor. Cause awhile back she figured that is how he says the things she's still not ready for. With terrible take-out. She's not sure she’ll ever be ready.

Alone, she slumps back to the activity area, hoping it's nothing like trust falls or shit. Because she doesn't trust a damn one of them further than she can throw them and she barely passed her department physical and that was years ago, when she was fierce but still aimless.

“There's ash in your hair,” Keene comments, but he doesn't reach to brush it away. Jill does it herself.

Keene smells like musk and dirt and coffee.

“Hey,” she starts.

Keene reaches around to his other side and produces a second cup, for her.

“Thanks,” Jill blows on the coffee even though it's already plenty cool.

Keene huffs, “now I can tell you've been drinking.”

Jill smirks, “and what of it? This place sucks. You saying you wouldn't, given the option?”

Shifting on top of the table, Keene just drinks from his styrofoam cup. The coffee is terrible and tastes like plastics. There's too much sugar in hers. But Jill downs it all anyway, though it cuts sharply through her buzz. Keene’s probably right. Even though this isn't work-work she'd get her ass busted for drinking on the job. Not gonna get caught, though.

Keene doesn't say anything. They don't do anything until the facilitator calls them all over, that fake smile on his face and his phone still vibrating in his back pocket.

\--

Keene has a bad feeling about lunch. Well, not lunch specifically, but the way Dog takes off immediately. Normally he mills around a bit, offering unwanted advice on people’s lunch selections, trying to push some new experimental recipe onto Keene. Dog wants nothing if not company. Sometimes Keene feels guilty that he can't be the one to provide it. But Dog is just so...needy, like a smothering blanket. But today he bolts straight out, like he can’t get away from Keene fast enough.

Jill’s predictably nowhere to be found. Which is fine, really. Whatever trouble she’s causing, let her cause it. Keene starts to shuffle away, looking for something to eat, when Veronica grabs onto his arm with both of his.

“Lunch?” she asks. “Lunch!” More declarative this time. Cass falls in step beside her girlfriend and as they trace their way through the park, Veronica transfers her attention from Keene back onto Cass. By the time they stop for Italian beef (Cass snickers), the two women are so close they’re practically inside one another.

Keene orders for all three of them, mumbling something about how Cass can pay him back later. Really he just wants something to do that isn’t hover around as a third wheel. But it was nice of Veronica to drag him along. She softens Cass too. Not like Keene could ever say that out loud because Cass would just as soon deck him in the face, even if she needs a stepladder to do it.

They eat standing up, because all of the benches in the thick of the crowd are full. Keene knows that hanging around humans that tolerate him doesn’t make him look any less out of place. They scarf down their sandwiches so fast Keene can’t even tell if he liked his or not when Veronica asks. She turns to burp in Cass’ face. Cass burps back twice as loud.

The women talk about looking for ice cream when Keene spots Dog. Fuck. Not this again. He has to excuse himself, not even bothering to hide the fact he needs to follow after his wayward partner. Again.

In the distance, a head of red hair standing feet taller than she should. The woman rides on her date’s back. Dog watches them.

Coming up behind Dog, Keene drops his hand onto his partner’s hulking shoulder. Keene knows how big he was before the change. He can’t really comprehend how big Dog must have been. Or if something really is different about what happened to Dog. He’s...newer, but somehow worse off.

When Dog jerks, his water bottle basically explodes all over Keene’s shirt, soaking through the thin fabric and causing it to cling uncomfortably. Nothing Keene can do about it now. At least the air is warm. He looks like an idiot though, water running down his chest.

“Goddammit, Dog.” He pulls his partner by the back of his shirt collar. This is exhausting, Keene is exhausted.  
No one knows yet how long they’ll live. The nightkin. Just they know their brains go first. Keene wonders how long Dog has left. How long they’re going to repeat these cycles. “She’s human.”

“I know,” Dog mumbles. At least he has the good sense to look guilty. While he might know, he doesn’t understand. And that’s the problem.

“You’re following her. That’s stalking, Dog. What we are, that looks bad. Real bad. Especially since we’re the ones supposed to stop those kinds of predators.” Keene knows that this time, like all the others, he’s not going to reach Dog. Keene can’t fix what’s broken in Dog. Hell, Keene can barely keep himself cobbled together. But he’s got his intellect still, if not all the other trappings of success he used to carry around like they meant something.

Dog will follow him, because Dog never wants to lead. Just, isn’t in his nature. And Keene wonders if that’s why Dog was selected. Why Dog got stolen. Plucked out of the ranks like he was special. That’s what they told Keene, however many years before. But Keene didn’t work out, as decorated as he was. Because after his body had broken and mended into something monstrous, he still thought like a man they couldn’t control. So maybe, when they went through the soldiers again, they picked men like Dog instead of men like Keene.

But Keene still looks for black hair and red lipstick, even though Jill's too short to be seen over the heads of so many taller people. So maybe the two mutants aren’t all that different.

\--

The afternoon’s activities are as shit as the morning’s, only the facilitator has a shorter temper and Jill’s sober. She twirls her feet in the dirt, letting the tips of her boots pick up more mud.

When it’s all over and done with, Jill gets her stuff from Vero’s bag. Cass offers her a ride home later, they’re gonna see the carnival a bit more, but she declines. She declines Boone’s offer too because Carla has her hand in the back of Craig’s waistband and they’re both smiling too much. She can take care of herself.

“Jill,” it’s Keene. She gets another excuse ready in her mouth. “We need to talk.”

Lies, they never need to talk. They need to shake the ghosts from their bones, but they don’t need to talk.

“No.”

“Yes.” He puts one of his big hands on her. She knocks it away.

It’s not that she’s afraid. Only she needs a cigarette, and she’d feel better if she had her gun. That’s all.

“No.”

“Jill,” Keene sounds very far away. In a way, he is, with the feet that separate them. She’s gotta crane her neck to see him. He’s gotta put her against a wall to kiss her. Feral and crazy. “Jill, you can’t go back to him.”

She snarls, “what the fuck?”

“Benny, he-”

“Don’t say his name like that,” Jill interjects, “like you know him. You don’t. You don’t even know me.”

“I told you, I read your file.” Keene’s eyes narrow.

There’s nothing she hates more than that violation. That Keene, of all people, fucked around in her shit. And he has the fucking gall to think that, as a result, he knows anything about her. Fuck. All he knows is her fucking price tag.

“What if I told someone? What if I told you were sniffing around in personnel files, huh?”

Keene’s trying to keep his voice low, but his mouth is so fucking big he can barely manage. “And what about you, you little saint? What about all those unauthorized trips to the evidence lockers. What about the missing boxes? How is that going to look?”

Jill keeps her mouth as neutral as she can, but she can feel the water welling up in her eyes. Not because she’s sad, she’s forgotten how to be sad. Maybe because she’s frustrated, she can at least remember that. But no, mostly because she’s feeling too many things at once, when normally she shades everything out. She can smell Keene this close, as he backs her up against the canvas tent. It won’t hold her weight though, when he inevitably tries to grab her, lift her up, kiss her and tear at her clothes because that’s the only way their arguments ever end. Otherwise, they’d kill each other.

“Terrible. But you know I’m rotten.”

“Yeah,” Keene’s calmer now, but the rage is still there, percolating under the surface of his bruise-colored skin. Like he should hurt everywhere.

“I hate you,” she means it. She doesn't. She doesn't know.

“Yeah.” Keene pauses. “Your makeup is running.”

Jill touches the pads of her fingers to just below her eyes. When she pulls them back, they're marked black. She's so angry about it she laughs.

“And your lipstick is gone.”

“I know.” But she touches her fingers there too. Because Keene won't touch her. Not here. Not like this. Though he grabbed her earlier. She pretty sure there's now black smudges on her lips, where before they were red. “I need a smoke.”

They walk out of the carnival together, plenty of space between them. People look at them like they're strange. They are strange. Both of them. All of them. Because even though Benny isn't here, he's the body between them. Jill likes that he’s there, Keene probably doesn't.

Jill leans against the side of Keene’s car while she smokes. It's a practical sedan, like Boone’s. But Keene has his so his legs will sort of fit when he drives, if he puts the seat all the way back, not so he can fill the extra seats with pretty babies.

When she pulls the cigarette from her mouth, there is a touch of black on the filter.

Keene leans over to kiss her, has to hump his back to do so. It's not rough, and it's not desperate, both of their nerves calmed by Jill’s habit. They don't kiss like this though. Keene is slow, almost affectionate, parting his lips so she will too.

“Open the car door,” Jill keeps her voice low. Keene goes for the passenger seat. “No, the back one.”

Keene’s skeptical, but he won't be in a moment.

“Get in, Keene.”

Jill climbs in after him, crossing over the seat and into his lap. They're confined like this, claustrophobic. Keene has to spread his legs wide so his knees don't knock against the backs of the front seats. Even so, he doesn't really fit. His head scrapes the ceiling.

Jill kisses Keene until she can't breathe. Until her lungs are full of resignation to things she can't explain. His hands run under the back of the shirt she stole from Benny, stretching it out around his arms. Keene unhooks her bra from the back, sliding his hands around to the front to cup her breasts. His hands are too big for her.

She bites at his lip until he tries to bite back. She skitters out of his reach, but not really, because Keene could reach her anywhere.

There's a tap at the window. Keene freezes.

“Benny,” she answers. Reaching for the handle, she flips the door open.

Benny leans forward, his hand on the roof of the car. “Don't let me stop you.”

Jill smiles, careful to turn her head enough that Keene can't catch it. But he's too caught up in his own embarrassment anyway.

“I think we’re done here,” Jill replies.

Benny offers her a hand out of the car. Jill takes it.


End file.
